


A Day Out

by slyyywriting



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28215699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyyywriting/pseuds/slyyywriting
Summary: Steve takes you outside for the day to help you not be sad anymore.Warnings: mentions of death, being sad, Steve being cuteA/N: It’s me. I’m the sad bitch who needs a day out with Steve
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	A Day Out

The capacity of a human to carry on is unmatched. In fact, humans can outrun horses based solely on sheer will and determination. That’s why only people participate in marathons.

The capacity of a human to feel pain on the other hand has its threshold. The human brain was designed either to adapt to the pain or to free itself of it. Some use pain to power themselves into proceeding with life with pain as their battery. While others such as yourself, who has been through so much cannot use pain as fuel anymore. Not for the millionth time you had experienced it when it could have been completely avoided.

So now, here you lie in your bed, numb and avoiding anything and everything that would possibly remind you of how you managed to colossally fuck up the one job you were supposed to do. Inside your burrito of blankets, you simmer in your own heat and regret, the mistake replaying again and again in an endless torture of a loop created from your own devices. Another tear escapes your eye and you burrow further into the sheets, regressing into something or somewhere that would make you feel safe again.

“Agent, Captain Rogers is looking for you.” FRIDAY’s voice chimes on the overhead speaker.

“Tell him I’m asleep.” You rasp out after a sniffle to the AI. You weren’t really in any mood to interact with anyone, especially tall, blonde and righteous soldiers.

“He’s aware you’re not asleep, Ma’am.”

You let out a long groan. For someone who was well versed in matters of consent, Steve Rogers does not get when someone (you) does not want to be bothered. A knock echoes from your door but it sounded more like a pounding, followed by a muffled voice.

“Captain Rogers is threatening to tear down your door.” FRIDAY informs you sounding a little bit exasperated herself. Like she’s aware how overbearing the captain can be at times.

You curl yourself further into the multiple layers of blankets you currently lied in, shutting your eyes and willing away the presence at your door. Only to hear it crash on the wall after being forcefully opened.

“ _Oh, shit!_ ” you hear Steve mutter a curse, regretting his own strength at prying the door open.

You stay still under the linen, praying to each and every god out there, Thor included, that your blonde friend would give up when he sees you _sleeping_. But alas, you haven’t really been in good standing with any of the deities because the next second you feel your bed dip and a hand prying your burrito protection open.

“C’mon, doll, I know you’re awake.” Steve whispers as he manages to get rid of the first layer.

You whine under everything and a small smile appears on the soldier’s face. You were never one to whine and hearing it just now confirms his belief that you were not alright after the failed mission.

He had seen you forlorn on the jet on the way home. You had never had any casualties in the 84 operations that you’ve been assigned to since joining the Avengers. And the one hundred plus ones that you had prior to transferring to the team before when you were still a field agent under SHIELD, you managed to get yourself and your extraction targets safely. But this time was different. The intel was off with the number of people that the team was going to rescue since it had failed to account children into the mix. You had to go back multiple times before every one of the refugees could be brought into safety and on your last trip back for the remaining people, a terrorist had already planted himself among them and blew himself along with them into smithereens.

You flew back a hundred feet from the blast only to be found by Steve with a shrapnel imbedded into your abdomen, a busted and bleeding eardrum, a broken wrist and a slight concussion. You were screaming your lungs out the moment you came to despite the ringing in your ears and no amount of consolation during the flight home had given you an ounce of comfort. That was four days ago. Four days of torturing yourself of how things would have been different if only you were prepared.

“C’mon, you have to go to the kitchen with me and eat. Nat cooked and I need reinforcement.” He tries to coax you out of your safety cocoon.

You wince at the mention of Nat cooking. It was always terrible. It was either bland or overly salty and you and Steve would never have the balls to tell her straight up. You respond with a muffled ‘no’ and Steve smiles a little bit bigger now.

“No, as in you’re not going to eat? Or no, as in you’re not eating Nat’s cooking with me?” he finally peels enough layers to see the top of your head, a silky scarf in place to protect your hair.

You let out another small, prolonged whine when you feel the room’s cool air on your forehead. You slack a bit and that was enough for Steve to free you from the blankets. As he strips off the layers and leave you bare, you sprawl on the bed, limbs extended out while your eyes, watery, puffy, and red rimmed stared up into the ceiling. Half of Steve’s face obstructs your view and you can see a couple of strands of his golden hair astray.

“I’m not risking food poisoning again.” You whisper, voice sounding alien after days of disuse.

Steve smiles softly, contented that you were still willing to talk to him. He extends an arm to cup your face, thumb rubbing a wet cheek. It hurt him to see you like this, see you broken about things you had no control over, things that were out of reason. It was not your fault, he had thought, it had never been your fault. Yet here you were trying to dig your chest out hollow by blaming yourself.

“Me, neither. Wanna sneak out and eat somewhere else?” he whispers back the offer.

Your eyes meet his and you nod meekly. Not able to deny your hunger anymore from days of starving yourself to fast for your sins’ atonement. Not able to deny the warm blue eyes that looked over you. Eyes that looked after you.

You really didn’t want to be outside your room. Despite knowing that it’s not true, you could feel each and every single eye on you while you and Steve, who is in his usual urban camouflage gear of a Yankees cap, aviators and leather jacket, maneuver through the lunch time rush in downtown Brooklyn. He insisted on getting you far and away from the Compound hoping the weight of responsibility fades away the farther you were from uniformed personnel and recruits running around.

You’re spacing out now, regretting being outside, regretting getting into the car with him. You’re bumping into rushing New Yorkers as you slow down the sidewalk when a firm hand pulls you back out of your own headspace and into the noise of the street and the smell of vehicle exhaust. Steve smiles from under his shades, nodding towards the general direction in front of him and somehow you’re able to think you’d go wherever he takes you.

You finally arrive at an old restaurant. It was homey and smelled like tomato sauce and grease. You tell your companion to order what he thinks is best and wait in silence, looking out onto the street outside the window. A hand covering your own draws you back again into the present.

“Hey, no one here knows what happened so you don’t gotta think about it, too. Okay?” He reminds you. You know this and you acknowledge. Up to what extent? Neither of you know yet but at least the thought, the option, looms somewhere overhead.

You eat in relative silence, one hand still touching, still a comfort, still an anchor into the now.

Next, your captain takes you to the Brooklyn Museum. You wander aimlessly with him in tow, a couple of steps behind for the whole ordeal, letting you heal slowly, gradually in peace at your own pace. He can be whatever you need and all you had to do was say. You knew this and it comforts you.

You chuckle at the exhibit you accidentally step in to while you were in a daze. You look behind and Steve catches on. It was a photo of him when he was still skinny, weighed about less than you ever had even at your skinniest but the eyes of the young man in the photo carried such grit in them not even two hundred pounds of muscle can hide away the fact that this was indeed your Steve. The Steve standing beside you now with his hand on the small of your back, warm and reliable and always, unfailing, there.

He hums at the display before looking at you. Your lips curl slightly upward and you snake an arm around his waist, leaning your weight onto his side. This is more than you physically leaning into him right now, he knows this. You’re sharing the burden, the heaviness inside you now and Steve accepts it, welcomes it. He can help carry them for you just like he’d said before. You spend the rest of the museum tour linked, not letting up, never voicing out anything because it is not needed, it was just there.

The last stop was the park. It was late in the afternoon and people were enjoying what time was left for the sun to be in the sky. Steve is sitting up, leaning back on his left arm, right hand brushing your arm as your head lay on his lap. Sometimes a stray tear would run down your cheek and jump to the grass below but he lets it be, he lets you be. He’ll be ready when you are, whatever you need.

“I don’t wanna be sad anymore.” You tell him after almost two hours of quiet. “I wanna stop being sad.”

He looks down at your face on his thigh, looking somewhere else, nose flushed from crying, lips trembling as you try and control your breathing. He runs a knuckle of your cheek and your eyes shut at the sensation.

“I know sweetheart, I know.”

His voice is warm, laced with honey, with sympathy. But it is also laced with hope because he _really does know_ that you’re trying to bounce back. He has been there before, the mentality of a good soldier who has to push on to the next duty, to the next life he might be able to save.

You exhale and open your eyes. The sky is bright and cloudless. People around you noisily going about their day, supposedly happy being unaware of your own troubles. There is laughter and warmth and everything you wish to achieve by doing your job well. There is hope yet.

You rise from where you lay and stand up. You brush your jeans off of any dirt or grass that would have stuck and take a deep breath, the last few seconds coming out in a shudder. But you do feel better.

Blue eyes look up at you, hopeful, hoping that he had helped. You smile down at him and he smiles back.

“I’m ready to go home. I’m ready, again.”


End file.
